


Tamarind Sweets

by gardenvarietyunique



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 23:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12156669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardenvarietyunique/pseuds/gardenvarietyunique
Summary: Asylum seekers often find their way to the gardens. There aren’t many of them, not compared to the number of citizens who request to return to houses and families in the Radch, but even if Radchaai sought asylum by the thousands Basnaaid would have recognized these people.





	Tamarind Sweets

Asylum seekers often find their way to the gardens. There aren’t many of them, not compared to the number of citizens who request to return to houses and families in the Radch, but even if Radchaai sought asylum by the thousands Basnaaid would have recognized these people.

Skaaiat Awer, dark and lovely and unmistakable, points out the kaleidoscope flower beds to her companions. Basnaaid hides behind and arbor and, so she’ll never have to run across the Awer contingent again, memorizes their faces.

Not well enough.

The second encounter is outside a noodle shop, where she has arranged to meet Seivarden.  
“I should go,” the Awer client says, for all the world as if she simply doesn’t want to detain Seivarden from her next appointment. Basnaaid feels the discomfort radiating from her nonetheless. Seivarden, almost as thick as the fleet captain sometimes, makes a habitual introduction in her entertainment heroine accent.  
“Horticulturist Basnaaid, Daos Ceit, a recent emigre from Omaugh Station. Daos Ceit, my friend Basnaaid is a specialist in the gardens.”

“I’ve seen them, they’re very beautiful,” Daos Ceit says. She’s impossibly tiny, her elegantly tailored jacket fitted around around childishly twiggy arms. The Awer clientage pin glitters on the brocade.

“Breq will probably get around to that at the next meeting on military development, tell Skaaiat she can submit a suggestion if she wants,” Seivarden tells a receding Daos Ceit. Then, in the noodle shop, “Shit. I’m sorry, Basnaaid, I wasn’t thinking—“  
“It’s fine,” Basnaaid says. She orders for them both before her solitary non-work friend can bring up her dead sister. She likes Seivarden, who understands better than even she does what it is to suffer a loss. Who cannot ever go home. “I don’t want to talk about the Awers or their household, alright? It’s fine.”

The third encounter is at the garden market.  
“I can swap you with someone on weeding detail if you’d rather,” her supervisor says. Basnaaid gestures resignation. “I’m glad that this is what my education fit me for. Handing out fruit at a market booth.”  
“Community outreach,” the supervisor insists. “More important than ever in times of upheaval.”  
“I came here for the assignment, not the community.”  
“Again, horticulturist, weeding detail.”

By the time Basnaaid sees Daos Ceit, the supervisor is too distracted chatting with someone’s chef’s errand runner to admit complicity in a set-up. Basnaaid twitches an angry inquiry at Station and smiles at the other person.  
“Your new accommodations fit a cooking staff? How comfortably you must be settling into your new home.”  
“I’m afraid we’re still mostly eating out of cartons.”  
“Must be an adjustment. I hear there’s plenty of nice properties downwell. Your household should move.”  
“I think my patron plans on staying until she can badger you into clientage.”

“Is everything all right?” The supervisor surfaces from her conversation just enough to take in Basnaaid’s tone and the cut of Daos Ceit’s coat. “Horticulturist? How’s the outreach going?”  
“Wonderful, we’ve discovered a mutual acquaintance,” Basnaaid says. “Don’t let us distract you.” She drinks in Daos Ceit’s subtle discomfort like a drought-dried tree in the rain.

“Look,” her opponent says, voice lowered, “I didn’t expect you to be here, and if I had known, I wouldn’t have come. We agreed as a household that—given the history—you ought to be given privacy—“  
“How kind,”  
“And I wasn’t seeking a confrontation, I couldn’t have known you’d be at that noodle place, and I’m only here now because someone said the gardens had tamarind pods. I haven’t had fresh tamarind in years.”  
“Just that? No other services your household might presume to offer me recompense for?”  
“Station’s already transferred the credits, let’s just be done with this.”

Basnaaid gestures the receipt of credits from her vision and bags the fruit.  
“The gardens exist to provide the station with clean air and a beneficial environment,” she says sourly. “We encourage visitors to enjoy the public spaces. I hope you feel reached out to.”  
“If these don’t taste even half as good as Orsian tamarind, I ought to ask for my credits back.”

The color drains out of Basnaaid’s face.  
“You’re from Omaugh Station?”  
“I wasn’t born on the station,” Daos Ceit begins, then realizes where the conversation is going.

Perfect, Basnaaid thinks. Even perfect strangers know the dead sister she never actually met. Loneliness and longing cling to her like vines.

“Tamarind sweets were a favorite treat when I was small,” Daos Ceit says. “ When I was assigned out of the system, I filled my bag with foods from home. Omaugh Station’s gardens maintained a different sort of climate.” She shifts the bag to her other arm, executes a brief uncomfortable bow, and leaves.

The fourth encounter is in a bar. Daos Ceit isn’t alone, but she isn’t with Skaaiat, and when she catches Basnaaid’s eye she makes an apology to her companions and moves across the room.  
“Station said you wanted to speak to me.”  
“I’d like to apologize for my rudeness the other day. I can be prickly.”  
“That’s apparent.”

They nurse their drinks in silence for a while.

“I didn’t really know your sister,” Daos Ceit says at last. “I was the flower-bearer in her home temple, but I was just a child.”  
“Me too.” There’s a voice in Basnaaid’s head who thinks they’ll regret this conversation later, but she washes it away with another drink. “I was born after she left home.”  
“One Esk always had candy.” Daos Ceit is embarrassed, almost apologetic. “I mean, almost always. I think it mostly handed out protein cubes when I was very small. But if you taught it a new song, or ran an errand, or just hung around long enough, she gave you candy.”

“Sounds about right,” says Basnaaid, thinking of the bemused fascination which which Breq Mianaai treats anyone shorter than her knees. “I saw pictures of Ors.”  
“Shitty decrepit mosquito breeding ground. And it stinks. My grandparents insisted that it was beautiful when their grandparents were young. I’d like to see it again. If, you know.” She makes a tossing gesture.

“This isn’t my home system either.”  
“Is the rest of your house in the Radch?” Even in the low lighting, Basnaaid’s expression makes the answer clear. Daos Ceit looks away.

“Why did you come here?”  
“We’ve got a mutual acquaintance who gets metaphysical about revolution. Some of her household are very dedicated.”  
“You, though. Personally. I bet Omaugh station was nice. Less…” Basnaaid does her best shattering dome impersonation, “upheaval.”  
“Not really. And I had pressing personal reasons to leave the Radch.”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“I hit the Lord of the Radch with a stun stick.”  
“Aat’rs tits.”  
“Yeah.”

Daos Ceit’s companions stand up from their table and look meaningfully across the room. She downs the rest of her drink and nods at Basnaaid.  
“I’ll accept your apology if you’ll accept mine. I’m sorry I was so unkind to you. Have a good evening, horticulturist.”

“Daos Ceit, wait.” It’s impossible to imagine this waif hitting anything, but the idea of someone stunning the Lord of the Radch does have its charms. “I hope you enjoyed the tamarinds.”  
Daos Ceit grins. “Almost half as good as I remembered. If trade’s ever normal again, I’ll get you some of the candies.”  
“I’ll see you around,” Basnaaid says. And, she thinks, maybe talk to her, too. In time.


End file.
